by May Woodward
‘Didn’t you give your Dora something inscribed “Rose”, Aubs, ordered two sweethearts ago and only just collected from the jeweller?’ James chortled.
‘Now, now, James,’ said Aubrey. ‘Clemmie will tell you I was as faithful as a puppy until I was led astray by you chaps.’
‘Oh, I think the hussars have improved you, brother dear,’ said Clemence.
‘Certainly. You and your fellows have taken Aubrey to your hearts, Captain Swynton. Speaking his w’s now like a wegular cavalwyman.’ Lysithea laughed.
‘Oh, I’ve always said he was the handsomest of all my brothers.’
‘Do you know how to make a fellow blush, Clemmie!’ said Aubrey.
‘But it’s true! What bosom bows the two of us were as youngsters, weren’t we, Aubrey? I declare there isn’t a nook in Eardingstowe we haven’t hidden in together to play pranks on the grown-ups.’
James stroked his whiskers.
‘Funny old place, Eardingstowe. What’s its history, might I ask?’
‘How long have you got?’ said Lysithea.
‘Oh, it’s very, very old,’ Clemence said.
‘Ah yes, as old as the hills!’ Lysithea laughed.
‘We had some antiquarians at Eardingstowe the summer before last,’ said Clemence. ‘From Cambridge. They dug all over the park. My brother Carrie and I helped.’
‘Did they unearth any of Eardingstowe’s shameful secrets?’ asked Fanshawe.
‘Yes, they did! They found a skeleton which had had its throat cut! Otherwise they just found weapons and things. Some Viking axes. And musket balls from the Civil War.’
‘Well, Eardingstowe’s never been peaceful!’ said Lysithea.
‘Geoffrey de Somelay came over with the Conquest,’ said Clemence. ‘But he married the local Saxon heiress, and her family had lived there forever. The medieval manorhouse stands on the site of the original Saxon meadhall. The oldest beams are said to date from the eleventh century.’
‘Clemence! Always the expert on these things!’ said Aubrey.
‘And Eardingstowe means “dwelling place,” so I believe it must have been our forbears’ home, well, since time began.’
‘Eardingstowe must have a few ghosts in the back chambers?’ James said, taking a sip of wine.
‘Yes, we have one or two phantoms as I recall,’ said Lysithea. ‘Not to mention Jenny Greenteeth.’
‘Oh yes, capital! Lurking in the mere, what, to catch a Somerlee and pull him to his doom!’
‘Dorothy Somerlee’s been seen flitting around St Laurey’s churchyard,’ Clemence said. ‘The first baronet was her son by Charles II. There are those who say, you know, that Charles secretly married her, which would have made their son Alois legitimate and the true heir to the throne! So, my brother Richard must be too, I suppose, since we’re the direct descendants! And, oh, you must have admired Gainsborough’s Black Beauty, hanging there at the head of the Eardingstowe staircase, Captain Swynton?’
‘I most certainly have, my dear.’
‘Well, she’s our great-grandmother!’
‘Her real name was Nkoszana,’ said Aubrey. ‘Our buccaneering great-grandfather rescued her from a slave ship, bought her freedom, and she became mistress of Eardingstowe and the toast of Georgian society!’
‘And don’t you think Lizzy looks just a little like her with those ebony locks and plum-dark eyes?’
‘If only, Clemmie! You forget that I’m no longer young and my charms fading! But to go on with Eardingstowe’s story, don’t forget the demon in the chamber.’ Lysithea’s smile widened. ‘Clemence, I imagine, can tell the story better than I can.’
Clemence took a long sip from her second glass of wine.
‘We had an ancestor who dabbled in sorcery. Back in the times when they burned witches. Anyway, the silly chap conjured up a demon. Then he couldn’t rid Eardingstowe of it. So, what do you suppose he did?’ She looked from Lord Fanshawe to Captain Swynton, relishing their wide-eyed attention. ‘He trapped the fiend in a chamber in the old hall and sealed it up for ever! On wild nights you can hear it wailing to be set free. But no-one knows where it is… except the present lord of Eardingstowe!’
‘What? Dickon?’ James exclaimed.
‘That’s right,’ Clemence said. ‘And he tells his son and heir on the night of his twenty-first birthday. Takes him there in secret and entrusts him with the key of the demon-chamber.’
‘Ah! I recollect the ball at Eardingstowe on the night of Richard’s twenty-first birthday,’ Fanshawe said. ‘Now I think of it, Miss Somerlee, I do recall your pater taking him off somewhere at one point.’
‘Might just have been to tell him about Mother Nature, old chap,’ James said, then caught Clemence’s eye. ‘Heirs of great estates must be told about crops and so on, you see, Miss Somerlee.’ Aubrey stifled a smile.
‘Well, I tried to find the room,’ Clemence pressed on. ‘I must have tapped at every panel in the medieval great hall, but I’ve never found it. But you never know… there’s always some truth behind these old stories.’
‘Oh, absolutely!’ Lysithea said as Swynton’s manservant arrived to serve the dessert. ‘Now, I remember your father’s twenty-first, Clemmie, Aubrey. Your Uncle George hid behind the longcase clock so that he could secretly follow our father when he took our brother to the demon-chamber. But George nodded off and missed it.’
‘Be rather fun,’ Lord Fanshawe said, ‘to let the Eardingstowe demon loose… see what damage it could do in today’s world.’
‘Well, Czar Nicky’s as good as that old demon in my estimation!’ Captain Swynton said, tucking into the rhubarb tart. ‘And at least this is a demon one can fight with rifle and sword.’ He turned to his bride-to-be and beamed. ‘Miss Somerlee, how about the Czar’s head on the Eardingstowe gatepost when we return?’
‘Don’t promise what you are unlikely to deliver, James,’ Aubrey said.
‘I was under the impression the Czar has withdrawn from the territories he’d occupied. Why need the war go on?’
‘Miss Somerlee! We’ve not come all this way to sun ourselves on the Crimea’s lovely beaches!’ said James. ‘We cannot allow a bully like Nicholas to sweep all before him. He slices his carving knives over Turkey at his peril. Nicky needs a good thrashing.’
Clemence leaned back against the gnarled bole of the cypress. She listened to the crickets’ chirp as James droned on, and Aubrey butted in now and then and argued.
It had been strange, riding through the Crimean country with her betrothed and the army. Everywhere you looked fields of sunflowers and poppies spread into the foothills of the mountains, dotted with grazing goats. War was hard to believe in. She had welcomed their frequent stops at painted homesteads. Householders had offered pastries called baklava stuffed with spicy meat and onions, and cups of cherry, pear and peach kompot to drink. She had puzzled at this pleasing local hospitality, until Captain Swynton had told her:
‘The Crim-Tartars are no friends of the Russkies. I think we’ll find our passage through their land quite smooth.’
What about the troopers though? From her comfortable horseback, she’d seen florid, faces damp with sweat as the men mounted inclines. Why – those woollen shakoes the fellows wore blazed in crimson glory on a parade-ground, but – goodness – how inapposite for baking-hot autumn beside the Black Sea.
One youngster had lain sprawled unconscious in the dunes beside their way. Clemence had been about to dismount to go to his aid, when an officer from the company had called out:
‘He ain’t dead, miss, just fainted, the dainty girlie. Leave him be and let running to catch us up be his punishment!’
The day might come when the soldiers’ salted pork ran short, and the dregs in their canteens left thirst unquenched.
She gazed across the bay towards Sebastopol. Streaks of magenta and rust criss-c
rossed an early evening sky like scars from the talons of a frightened bird of prey. Among them were patches of moribund sunlight which glimmered on the softly shifting dark waves, and then flickered out.
‘A beautiful night,’ Captain Swynton murmured as he joined her. The pair stood together on the other side of the dune from the picnic party. The chatter of the other three could still be heard from here, beneath the chip-chip-chip of the crickets.
HMS Agamemnon, HMS Queen and two of the French warships were prowling around the entrance to the port. Grey-black Gargantua blocking out the early stars. Steel steamers. Just think – but forty years it was since Napoleon’s navy had fought in wooden vessels.
In less than a half century steam had taken over the world – ruled men’s lives as once had the seasons. Now coal drove industry and transport, and even the weapons of war. Would those wheels turn faster and faster until one day there would be firepower to destroy all mankind?
The captain reached into his canteen. He brought out a shiny, oval medallion, and showed it her.
‘It’s called Our Lady of Kazan. Holy Mother Russia’s most sacred icon.’ An austere, powerful face stared out at Clemence from the disc which lay in his broad, freckly palm. ‘We pursued the Russkies some way after the redoubts fell at Alma. Some chap had dropped this. I spotted it glinting in the sand.’
‘I imagine it meant as much to him as a miniature of his own mother would.’
‘Absolutely-dootly. Superstitious lot, the Russkies.’
‘Perhaps you should send it to the Russian high command. Doesn’t seem right to keep something so precious, James.’
‘Oh, poppycock!’ he laughed as he dropped the pilfered trophy back into his pouch. ‘Oh, Clemence Somerlee,’ he said as he looked at her. ‘How I love and admire you! You made me the happiest of men when you said yes to me!’ James clasped her hand in fingers which were still sticky from the chicken drumstick he’d just finished eating. ‘When shall it be, my sweet one? The regimental chaplain could wed us, and our marriage night could be beneath a Balaclava moon! Do say it’ll be soon?’
Over by the nearest troopers’ tent, a man was playing the violin and singing Cheer, Boys, Cheer.
James had first proposed to her on a starlit balcony in the month of May, while she’d been loving the wonder of her first season; and the dewy-eyed devotion of a man who was besotted with her. So, it was not turning out quite so magical after all? Could she blame James? There were worse men than James Swynton out there – rakes and bounders a-plenty. The truth was that James deserved better than her.
‘Shouldn’t we wait until after the fighting is over, James?’
When James had fallen into a nap later that evening, Clemence climbed the path to the clifftop. There she stood, looking out. When the moonshine had flickered like that on the surface of the Eardingstowe mere, her crazy Aunt Cassie had told her once it was the fairy-folk out dancing. Banished from the daylight by the early Christian priests, they only ventured out by night.
‘Aunt Lizzy said I’d find you here!’
She turned to see her brother Aubrey on his way to join her.
Aubrey picked a sprig from the only greenery which was growing near and brought it over.
‘Strawberry tree. Doesn’t grow well in our cold clime at home but flourishes here.’ He plucked a knobbly red berry from the little bough and divided it between them.
‘Well… we could try taking a cutting home with us,’ she said. ‘We’ve grown more exotic things in our hothouse.’
‘Yes… if we ever do see home again.’
‘Oh, Aubrey…!’
‘Clemence…!’ Aubrey caught her by the wrist and turned her to face him. ‘Look! You must know that the Russians are heading for Balaclava. They’ll be here by dawn, so our scouts are reporting. I know I made light of it earlier. But it is true, Clemmie. We could be in battle tomorrow.’
‘It’s what you all wanted, isn’t it, Aubrey? Throughout those months of inactivity in Varna?’
‘Clemmie…’ Aubrey looked down at his boots. ‘Would you believe I’m frightened? Frightened I might never come back? God knows I never thought it would ever come to this,’ he said with almost a cry, dark eyes roving the sky. ‘When I joined a fancy regiment, I mean.’ He shrugged, and grinned. ‘I thought I’d be mincing around in a redcoat and showing off my sword to the ladies.’ The smile faded. ‘Not facing death in the face…’
‘Oh, Aubrey. I don’t know what to say to you!’ Sure enough, what could she say? I’m sure you’ll be safe? Huh – that was utter poppycock. She’d seen the piles of dead at Alma – from a distance, of course; Lizzy hadn’t let her go close.
She took hold of his hand as they looked out to sea together. Down below was the fleet of warships. Silver ribbons could be seen trailing those vessels which were in motion.
‘I’ve always loved you best of all my brothers, Aubrey. Maybe I’ve never told you that?’ she said with a small awkward laugh. ‘Not just because we’re the closest in age. I was always in awe of Dickon, had nothing in common with Ivo, and Carrie pinched and teased me too flaming often! And Johnny is just a baby of course. But you… you’ve always been there for me. Dependable. Best friend. I can’t imagine a world without you,’ she finished on a watery smile.
He raised a hand wearing a white gauntlet and rested a finger under her chin. Gently, he kissed her forehead.
‘I was just talking to a messmate,’ he told her. ‘Captain Radlett. Do you know him, Clemmie? We were asking each other whether we think there’s an afterlife or not. Two big grown boys. Can you believe it?’
‘Oh, I can believe it, Aubrey.’
Clemence looked out over the sea. She picked out in the darkness the domes and fortress walls of Sebastopol around the curve of the coastline. Capturing it was what this war was all about now.
Suddenly, she found herself wondering why. The port was the Czar’s principal naval base in the region, yes. Maybe possessing it would give us some strategic advantage in these parts – she really didn’t know much about these things, but she supposed it might. But was it really worth the bloodshed she felt sure was to come?
So why, then, were they all still here? She thought of the hysterical newspapers and populace at home baying for war… no, our boys cannot go home without something to show for it. That crowd which had seen them off at Portsmouth with airborne hats, singing Cheer Boys Cheer, would as soon tear them to scarlet ribbons should they limp back without shields having let Johnnie Roosian get the better of them. Like maenads. And the thought made her shiver.
‘All that loss of life, Aubrey. Those poor, dead men… English, Russian… and the wives grieving at home. But maybe it’ll mean there’ll be no more wars after this. Wouldn’t that be worth dying for?’
Both cocked an ear as from the city the sound of church and cathedral bells rang out.
‘I’ll come back, Clemmie. I’ll come back… somehow, sometime. I want to give you away at your wedding, don’t forget.’
‘Here,’ Clemence told him, and unfastened something from around her throat.
‘Clemmie, this is the locket Mater gave you on your confirmation day,’ he said, astonished and dismayed, ‘the one with the engraving of St Anne and the Virgin.’
‘Take it, Aubrey. Think of me tomorrow. I’ll pray for you.’
FOUR
She went out the next morning before her Aunt Lysithea was awake.
Clemence roamed the plateau, keeping well to the edge of things. Her fiancé must be here somewhere. She didn’t really want to meet him. For one thing, she’d be a girly getting in the way.
‘You! And you!’ the girl heard a gingery-moustached sergeant yelling. ‘I don’t care if the quartermaster is having a lovely dream! Wake the bugger up and get him out here now. In his smalls if needs must!’
The encampment was buzzing with unreadiness despite t
he advance warnings they were supposed to have had. For days, rumours there had been that the enemy was heading for Balaclava. It looked as if it really was happening, and they’d been caught with their breeches down.
Soldiers were stuffing themselves into uniforms over undergarments and braces. A bearded private of the Wiltshires with an anxious look on his face was sitting on a stool outside a tent, locking and unlocking the barrel of a rifle. A cooking-pot clanged as it was accidentally kicked, and out sizzled a swear-word from the one who’d done it the injury. Chickens and roosters went flurrying and squawking out of the way.
The wind had grown stronger overnight. It was not much short of a gale. All the flags and tent coverings were thwacking against their posts.
Down in the valley the Ninety-Third Highlanders – so she gathered from the men’s talk as she passed close by the tents – were facing the Russian onslaught alone… She could hear the rifle-fire above the ruckus. While this wimp of a girl could not face Captain Swynton.
She almost bumped into a man bearing a saddle over his shoulder.
‘I’m so sorry!’ She backed off. ‘I’ll get out of your way…’
‘You looking for someone, miss?’
‘My fiancé, and my brother. I thought I might wish them well before…’ Before you all go out to get killed?
The private glanced at the men rushing to get ready.
‘Wouldn’t recommend it, miss. You take yourself off to watch from somewhere safe with the other civvies.’ He gave her a sudden grin. ‘Give them, and us, a smile with that pretty face, hey? That’s the best you can do for us right now.’
She wasn’t the only civilian milling around the tents while the soldiery tried to get ready, and not the only blushing maiden to see a trooper in his smalls. One buzzing swarm of “war tourists” as they were known, which Clemence found herself drawn towards the rear of, was heading towards the sound of screams and gunfire which was coming from the valley.
‘Where are you all going?’ she asked a middle-aged man and his wife.